


By Any Other Name

by patriciaselina



Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: Accountant AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cupcakes, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Other, POV Second Person, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mako Mori is an eighteen-year-old Accountancy student who swears by the delicious cupcakes of the wildly popular Maximillian Bakery. Said bakery is run by a mysterious individual who apparently hasn’t ever been seen by even their most fervent customers. One day, Mako opens a door, unravels a mystery, and everything else just happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ab initio

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [By Any Other Name (fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/29355) by insomnikat@LJ. 



> I would like to thank silentside for agreeing to beta this. Really, sis, thank you.

****

_**Ab initio.** Latin, From the start; from the first act; from the inception._

_An agreement is said to be “void ab initio” if it has at no time had any legal validity. A party may be said to be a trespasser, an estate said to be good, an agreement or deed said to be void, or a marriage or act said to be unlawful, ab initio._

* * *

 

You’re sitting on the couch with your head down, busy scrubbing off the notes you penciled in the book margins that read “ _legal capacity = juridical capacity + capacity to act”._ This is why your roommate has to bend almost double to look at what you are doing.

 “Tsk. It's a shame you have classes, Mako.” she says, clicking her tongue in mild annoyance.

“Mm. Don’t mind it.” you tell Sasha, flicking off the flakes of eraser with your fingertips. “You’ll be slaving over another 'project', and I'll only get in the way. Greet the triplets for me?”

“Will do,” Sasha replies, almost absentmindedly, before your words finally register with her. “Wait. You know about our _project_? But how…” She grins, then, though there is a hint of mischievousness about it. “ _Cheung_. Do _not_ tell me, he told on us, didn't he?”

“Sasha, Sasha. Cheung told me _nothing_. Which was the tell.” you roll your eyes, getting ready to scrub off another penciled-in note - this one says that _the object of the partnership must be lawful to gain a juridical personality._

“You’ve been working on the Jaegers, weren’t you?”

“Oh, thank you for not calling them _robots_ , sweetling.” Sasha reaches for you, affectionately nuzzles your hair.

 _Jaeger_ , German for ‘hunter’ – Hermann from D-02 had suggested the name, and the five of them – Sasha, Aleksis, and the Wei Tang triplets – have been in love with it ever since.

“Another three-armed blueprint,” you muse. “...since, well, Sasha, can you hand me the –  “ From the other side of the room, your roommate tosses you a pencil, which you catch easily. “Thanks. Well, it’s the triplets. They _love_ doing things in threes.”

“You'd think it'd be harder to fix up the mobility of a three-armed robot, but it seems our darling Jin actually finds it _harder_ to write code for a normal, two-armed one.”

“Well, that’s got to be interesting…this one’s built like a tank, this time, isn’t it?”

“How would you _ever_ think that, Mako?”

“Oh, come on, silly. It’s _you_ , after all.”

“Ahh, yes, of course. You _do_ know me!” Sasha takes a stray hair and pushes it into her braid. “You know you’re welcome to visit any time you want, right?”

“Of _course_ I’d love to come along, but, well,” you don't finish your sentence, instead making an all-encompassing gesture around you. From the piles of books and papers the faint outline of a coffee table could almost be seen, as well as the smoke unfurling from the top of an electric blue mug.

You’ve always liked to think of yourself as an organized student, but when you’re reviewing – well – reference materials seem to like going places. You let them be. “Midterms are coming up. Maybe next week?” you tell her.

You also decide to leave out the fact that right after midterm season is _finals season_ , and the probability of you getting to take a breather is _at_ _most_ 15 percent.

“See, this is the thing about Accountancy: it _is_ a good course, but it can and _will_ suck the life out of you.” Sasha murmurs, chidingly. “You and Cheung are _exactly_ the same. Fussing and fretting about balances and worksheets. Poor boy can't even relax enough to pore over the blueprints with us!”

“It’s _got_ to be harder for him, though.” you ponder, rereading another note - reading _ab initio: from the beginning -_ before deciding not to scrub it out. That term was left without a definition in the book; you had to scribble it in yourself. “He’s _graduating_.”

“ _I’m_ graduating, too – and just look at me! I’m not _half_ as wound up as him.” Sasha checking her reflection one last time  –  she’s still gorgeous as ever, even when she’s just clad in a shirt and pants with no other accessory but her trusty red lipstick.

Sasha bounds up to where you are and gives you a sound kiss on the cheek. “I’m going, sweet.”

“Take care…and you don’t count, Sasha, you’re _queen_ of time management.”

“Mm hm hm…not a queen, honey, a _khaleesi_.”

You roll your eyes. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

Sasha’s grin only grows wider. “You _always_ do…wait, you’ll be able to get the cupcakes in before your classes start, yes? You have a delivery today.”

“ _Maximillian_! Yes, I think. I have time.” you set the book down, to look at your departing roommate, quizzically. “Is it true that _nobody_ has seen the guy who delivers them? I’d have thought _nobody_ could get past you.”

“That’s still true – nobody can. Except for _this one_ …I am thus driven to suspect that this – _individual_ – has had more stealth training than I.” Sasha grunts slightly, annoyed at not getting to solve a mystery. “Maybe you could give it a shot? You’re sneaky and quiet; you give cat burglars a run for their money.”

“Maybe I will…if only I didn’t have all these stuff to deal with.” you smile, serenely, before standing up to bodily push Sasha over the threshold. “Now _go_. They’re waiting for you, can’t move a muscle without the ‘almighty guidance’ of their leader, now can they?”

“Of course they can’t. See you later, Mako.”

This is where you’d normally say ‘break a leg’, but you decide against it. “Don’t _literally_ break any of their legs, Sasha.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow, and then schools her face into a practiced Look of pure innocence. “Does this mean I can break their _arms_?”

“You’re incorrigible and I don’t know how I cope. _Go_.”

* * *

 

See here, if there’s anything anyone would immediately recall when asked about your university…

…it’d be that Attorney Stacker Pentecost, Law professor and part-time guidance counselor, is God’s gift to any and all students, with good looks and a brain to match, but you don’t particularly like thinking about that one.

This is because Stacker Pentecost is your father in all the ways that matter and a day where you don’t think about the girls your age wanting to be your adoptive stepmom is a day well spent, _thank you very much_.

You prefer moving on to the next idiosyncrasy, which is one that thankfully does _not_ involve you yearning for bottles of brain bleach.

To change the topic, then. There’s this quaint little website that garners a whole lot of traffic, especially after thunderstorms, finals, and all other depressing college days, a grey-and-cream site under the name of the Maximillian Bakery.

The flavors  –  an average of ten of them at any given time  –  are seasonal for the most part, or rotate from week-to-week, depending on, you presume, demand. Which is why there is always Vanilla and some chocolate-flavored cake, and why every time your own favorite – Apple Pie, soft cinnamon cake topped with apples and cinnamon frosting – is on the menu, you always order a dozen.

It’s the one thing that calms you, which would be silly, but could only ever make sense in your sleepless and harried mind.

Now, rumors say that the one-man show behind the online bakery is a student in the university – but nobody ever has seen him, or her, even if they’re the one who also does the deliveries. It’s as if they know when the inhabitant isn’t in, which is equal parts creepy and impressive.

The rumors then begun to go wildly out of hand  –  _maybe they’d be a child of the professors, or of the administrators, so they have access to everyone’s schedules?_ You had been hounded by a couple of greatly annoying journalist-types, and when they couldn’t take your _no_ for an answer you had to resort to pretending to be a worse cook than you actually were. It worked.

Personally, you think the owner of the Maximillian Bakery deserves their privacy, if they want to have it their way. But personally, you are still human, and curiosity can and will have its way with you. So you drag an ottoman to the door, read your book there, and wait.

* * *

 

In the middle of this, your phone vibrates, singing the tune of a rather sappy Japanese pop-love song. Raleigh set that as your ringtone as a joke some three days ago; you’re still thinking how best to get back at him.

“Hello, this is Mako Mori.”

An adorable, familiar voice chuckles from the other end of the line. “Ah, _unni_! Hello!”

“So-yi,” you reply, grinning. The Education major and her own roommate – a stoic Accountancy sophomore, Yuna – are probably out silently bickering about things in the library as they are prone to. You never could understand how they could _silently_ bicker, but hey, that’s what they do. “Why’d you call?”

“Well, I just saw your prof, Attorney Edinburgh. She said she won’t be able to go to class today, she has some important emergency meeting for one of her high-profile cases, so you’ll be having make-up classes next Monday.”

“That’s nice to know, thank you, So-yi.” In the margins of your reviewer you pencil in another note - _midterms: postponed until Tuesday_ – and, because nobody else’s here to see, you throw in a little fist-pump. “I’d love to talk to you more, but I’m waiting for a call right now, so we’ll have a chat next time, okay?”

“Waiting for Maximillian, aren’t you? I know because – well, we had a delivery too, and I opened the door as soon as the phone rang, but I didn’t see them. It’s a good thing I’m not alone  –  Yuna can’t see neither hair nor hide of them, either…shut up, of _course_ it's fine, Yuna you dork, nobody expects you to outsmart the guy, okay.”

“…I’ll leave you both to it, then. See you around, So-yi. Say hi to Yuna for me.”

You’ve only put down the phone, when it vibrates, again. The caller ID makes it perfectly clear who it is, even if you don’t – can’t, actually, it’s in one of the ordering rules – pick it up. _Maximillian_.

The instructions are to wait until the phone rings off until opening the door, but tons of people have disobeyed that and _still_ they weren’t able to see the mysterious baker. Even _Sasha_ , who could outsmart the Secret Service if she wanted to, hadn’t even seen their shadow.

So, yeah, all right, here goes, you open the door in front of you in a single swoop, apparently shocking the daylights out of the  –  rather _familiar_   –  young man crouching by your door, fussing over the cream ribbon on top of a grey box. There is a phone in his hand, and as his startled blue eyes look up at you, you realize something:

He _is_ familiar. You _know_ him. Go to class with him almost every day, in fact – in every class, save for your supposed class today. _Law on Partnership and Corporations.._.

“ _Charles Hansen_?”


	2. Prima facie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Mako uncovers Chuck’s secret, she has to work with him from his home base – room E-01, a good floor below her own apartment – and has to consider whether or not she should do the assignment alone, act normal, or give up the façade and just punch him.

 

_**Prima facie.** Latin, On the first appearance, at first look, on its face._

__A fact presumed to be true unless it is disproved._ _

* * *

 

The thing is, that day, you were so shocked/amazed/dumbfounded to do anything but gape at Hansen like a fish as he got to his feet and scampered - no, seriously, he _scampered_ off, and it was hilarious.

It’s not that you find offense with a grown man baking cupcakes  –  traditional gender roles are just not something you like boxing people in, because doing so would make life so much sterile, so less _fun_   –  it’s just that you had expected it to be anyone behind that door, really.

 _Anyone_ but him.

Charles Hansen has been your classmate since first year, and in the three years you’ve seen each other in the margins of each other’s lives you can see a parallel. You prefer books to people, practice the martial arts, have faculty members as parents, and take up the same course.

The two of you are usually led to pair up for schoolwork, too, being the only ones teachers can’t ever sort out…but that’s _it_ , really. He's a ticking time bomb. You’re one too. You can’t really say you’re acquaintances.

“‘Not a friend, a _colleague_ ,’” you mutter, paraphrasing from one of your favourite detective dramas. _Are you even colleagues?_

Which is why it should be silly, really, how you’re actually _dreading_ having to be paired up with him, again. You’re about to knock on the door of room E-05 when you realize this, pausing with your fist in the air.

Whatever shall you do, exactly? What if the reason why nobody had ever seen the Maximillian baker was that he _never lets anyone **live** to tell the tale_?

It's _admittedly_ an outrageous story. But since you're always so serious about everything, surely it won't hurt to have an imagination that is anything but?

“The good thing about being small is that one has a better chance at aiming for the solar plexus,” you murmur absently, squaring your shoulders, straightening out the tails of your navy blue button-down.

...and the good thing about being Stacker Pentecost’s adopted daughter is that you know full well how to make him _hurt._

So when you cross the threshold, you do so with your fists clenched and your chin up. _Bring it on._

* * *

 

As things went, though, you didn't _have_ to punch Charles Hansen. The only thing is, right now, you _want_ to.

“Matrices’re _dumb_.” With a toss, Hansen manages to send his paper airplane flying across the diagonal of his living room. His dog, a large bulldog with a stereotypically spiky collar, stands up and chases after it as it descends. “We're _accountants_. These can't help me make a living.”

“That's what you say. But you had good grades last week.” You pluck out one of his tests from the increasingly-growing pile of papers atop his coffee table. “Duplex programming requires a minimal knowledge of matrix operations, Hansen. How did you answer this?”

“Well,” he murmurs, looking at the said test from over your shoulder. “I took the numbers out, here, and then...then I flipped them over.”

You look at him, deadpan, wondering why on earth someone so brilliant could ever need someone to hold his hand the whole way. “That _is_ what a matrix transpose means, Hansen. Only with enormous brackets.”

He huffs, once, reminding you more of an obnoxious toddler than the grown man he’s built like. “What _ever_ ,” he says, and then bounds off his chair, into the kitchen, without so much as a moment of hesitation. “Make yourself comfy. I have stuff to do, gimme an hour.”

You sigh, deciding to move on to rereading on Installment Sales reviewers instead of continuing the pair assignment by your lonesome. The man knew his matrices. If only he could _accept_ calling them matrices...

When Hansen doubles back to look at you, the thinly-veiled irritation perpetually on his face seems to have lessened somehow. “Are you coming?”

“Coming _where_?” You mark off your place in the book with a bookmark, frowning a bit at the intrusion. “It seems you have to do something, Hansen. I won't be in your way.”

He's still lingering by the doorframe, like he's second-guessing what he's about to do. “This is normally when I'd push you out the door, giving excuses about an emergency. But what the hell, I won't be doing anything you don't know.” He turns from you, a quarter-turn almost _military_ in its precision, and then seems to remember something. “And besides, I think I'd need help keeping Max away from the mixing bowls.”

“Hmm.” you set down the book on his couch, interest perking up at the mention of _mixing bowls_. “Max would be the dog, I'm guessing.”

“You'd be right.” he replies, returning to the kitchen. You follow, and see him fussing over oven knobs.

Hansen’s kitchen is stark and almost utilitarian in its design, everything black-white-grey and stainless steel. The only concession to color seems to be the _alarmingly_ bright tangerine KitchenAid mixer on the center island, which he now moves to fill with butter.

True enough, the bulldog – Max – bounds his direction, most probably aiming for one of the oiled cupcake pans. You intercept Max with a crouch and a hand to sniff; the dog pauses, considering your existence, and decides to acquaint himself to your scent. From the other side of the center island, Hansen’s eyes lock on yours in what seems to be silent approval.

Your favourite kind of approval.

“Usually, I like doing stuff by hand.” Hansen says, answering a question you haven't thought to ask. Come to think of it, the man’s got a lovely pair of muscular arms – no no _no_ , stop that, Mako, that scared the seven hells out of Raleigh then, it’d scare Hansen out now.

Thankfully, however, Hansen seems to have not noticed. “But this one's a rush order. _Three dozen_ by tonight – if I had been told three years ago that I'd spend my nights baking this many cupcakes in this little time, I'd have shot the messenger.”

“So that's when you started, then? Three years ago?”

“Before then, actually.” Hansen checks over...something...in the butter, and it seems it had passed, as he tips three small bowls of sugar in. “I've been baking since I was a kid, only started baking under Maxie's name when I got here.”

“Maxie...Maximillian, then?”

“Right in one, it's a family name,” Hansen said, though his face seemed to have been overcome by some emotion that surely didn't come from the success of creaming sugar and butter. “Well, it is a family name. _Was_ a family name – listen, would you mind if I _didn't_ talk about this?”

Your answer is quick, immediate. There are some things you don’t want to just tell your classmates, _ever_. “No.” Max sidles beside your leg then, seemingly trying to console your rising apprehension.

“Funny thing, though,” he murmurs, with a corner of his mouth rising up into what'd be called a smirk on most people. “I think you'll find out sooner or later.”

A lump is forming in your throat. It seems you don't quite know what to say to that.

There are six eggs on the table, and a small bowl with a fork. Hansen clears his throat, then he begins humming to himself, some song you probably don't know. He clicks his tongue once, twice, and rifles through his cabinets for a similar small bowl. He fishes out a fork, too, and hands both to you. “Here. Let's split.”

“Hmm?”

“I have to beat and mix six eggs, one-by-one.” he tells you, jerking his chin to the direction of the mixer. “If you could take care of half -”

“Okay, then.” you break an egg and begin to beat it. You look at Hansen, who has his back turned to you and seems to be beating an egg halfway to submission.

Hansen tips the beaten egg down the mixing bowl, and starts on another one. Then, he sets his own work down, extends an arm your direction. “Hand it over?” You do, so he tips your bowl over, hands it back.

You work on the second egg, yolk and white mixing together in frothy yellow. He’s watching the whirring blades of the mixer. It's a comfortable silence.

Something has been eating at you for a while now, so you decide _to hell with it_ and decide to let it be known. “You aren't mad at me?”

Now, you're done with your last egg, so he turns and plucks the bowl from your hands. “Why would I be?” he muses, tipping the bowl over the mixer, them chucking it off to the kitchen sink.

“…because I invaded your privacy?”

“Pshaw. That's silly, Mori.” There's what seems to be his usual haughty smirk in place, though you can feel a hint of playfulness in there as well. “It's fine. Just - well. Remind me _never_ to cross ya.”

You purse your lips, wondering what he could have been referring to.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was _obvious_.” Hansen hefts what used to be a rather sizable sack of flour onto the kitchen counter, and a measuring cup whose size seems comically miniscule in comparison to both the sack itself and the Australian man carrying it. He needs two and a half cups, apparently. “Your posture was nice, stance alert. You would’ve had me clean on my feet if ever I had the nerve to try something funny.”

It shouldn’t have been a compliment, it really shouldn’t, but it _is_ and you have to stop yourself from flushing like a beet, see _that_ was one of the biggest cons to having a fair complexion. “But you were not going to ‘try something funny’. If I had offended you by thinking you would, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted, even if I _really_ don’t need it.” He’s measuring three tablespoons of – was that Earl Grey? – into the mixer, and then the mixer whirrs to life, beating the mixture into completion.

The kitchen now smells faintly of sweetness and flowers, two things you would have never thought to associate with Charles Hansen, in any way.

“All right, I know you’ve got questions.” Hansen drawls, back still resolutely turned to you as he pours in a cup of milk, and a half-cup more. “Have at ‘em.”

“This cupcake business…the bakery.” you say, motioning to the increasingly-emptying _mise en place_. “Why are you doing it?”

“Because university isn’t cheap.” he replies, strangely flippant for having such a serious answer. “I told myself that when I got to college, I was going to pay my way through it. The scholarship I got shaved off a nice amount, in exchange for going to seminars and stuff, but still, you’ll need more than just a part-time wage to pay off what’s left, as well as keep everything running.” As he speaks he gestures vaguely to his workplace - the light fixtures, the oven, the electric stovetop. “Maximillian turns out to be a surprisingly liquid business. As you may know, I have a strict ten-day-payment policy, for the larger orders.”

 “That’s…actually very impressive.” you tell him, because really, it _is_. _Sensei_ had said that he doesn’t regret footing your college bill, but you still can’t help but think about how it would feel if you had the means to pay it on your own.

Hansen has a hand to his nape now, smiling wanly, a bit bashful. “Huh. Nobody’s called that ‘ _impressive’_ before…”

“What _did_ they call it, then?”

“There’s this guy…but he doesn’t count, he’s an absolute _arse_.” Hansen says, completely serious, so you decide to not press on any further.

The question that comes out of you next isn’t your next choice, but what can you do, it’s already there. “Why are you taking up Accountancy?”

He pauses from measuring out his second additional cup of flour, and somehow manages to turn to you without _actually_ looking at you. “Well, I didn’t quite expect you to ask _that_ …”

Oh no was _that_ a pressure point, quick, Mako, _damage control._ “You – you don’t have to answer. It’s just a curiosity because, well,” what the hell are you saying, remember some reason or _obfuscate_ , fast, wait there _that_ one will have to do. “You never really did answer that question. When we were freshmen, you’d glare at every prof who asked you that until they backed off.”

The smirk finds its way back on his face, though it’s a touch less mocking by now. “I’d tell them ‘it’s none of your business.’ Really isn’t. I was supposed to take up Mechanical Engineering.”

“Just like Sasha, then.”

“Yup. But four years ago, Engineering stopped being an option for me…I don’t think I have to explain it to you.”

Another pressure point, you see. Talking to this man seems like walking on broken glass. “No, you don’t.”

“Wait – I, I don’t mean I don’t _want_ to explain it to you, like I didn’t want to earlier, but I don’t _need_ to, because you’re Pentecost’s kid. I think you know what I mean, yeah?”

You stop looking at him to contemplate – four years ago, in the midst of prep time for graduation, finals, and exerting force to stop Raleigh from dragging you to your own senior prom, you had your entrance exams for this university.

 _Sensei_ had treated you out to some fancy restaurant upon hearing of you passing and subsequently being the topnotcher of the said entrance exam. You had spoken of many things, one of which being – _oh_.

“Your father had been installed as Dean of Engineering.” you say, carefully. “Engineer _Hercules Hansen_.”

“Granted, that shouldn’t have stopped me – Pentecost’s become the _de facto_ Accountancy dean, and you’re cool.” Hansen’s now moved to fill the cupcake pans, going through the repetitive motions with practiced ease. “But I just _can’t_ , so I tried looking at stuff from a different perspective. My – well, someone else in my family, she – _they_ were an accountant, and they were _brilliant_. They could discern fraud from a single set of statements. So I guess that’s why, but really, it hadn’t been anyone’s business but mine.”

You swallow down something feeling like _guilt_ , which is silly. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“Why would you be?”

“I just can’t help but – oh, you were speaking in the past tense. I really am sorry.”

“It’s _fine_ , Mori. No use crying over spilled milk, and all that.” Done with the first cupcake pan, Hansen now moves onto the second one. “My turn, this time. Same question for you?”

“Oh, but mine really isn’t interesting, to be honest.”

“Humor me.” Hansen drawls, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm…I guess you know by now, the story of _sensei_ adopting me...” you say, in part because it’s a really infamous story, in part because you really don’t like speaking of the reason _why_.

“Oh, drat, I forget. _Both_ of yours, right? _I’m_ the sorry one, this time.”

“No, it’s all right, spilled milk, remember?”

There’s the beginning of a smile on Hansen’s face, so you find yourself joining in mimicry. “Spilled milk.”

“Back then, _sensei_ wasn’t practicing law. He was neck-deep in the accounting practice – our flat was _horrible_! Imagine a little girl floundering about in mountains of paperwork, with a man who fussed over her and the papers in equal measure, and he didn’t even seem to need or _want_ to sleep.”

Hansen lets out a slow chuckle at that. “Like a sparkly vampire?” he asks.

You nod, sighing. “Like a sparkly vampire. _Exactly_. I was beginning to wonder what exactly I had gotten myself into.” Remembering the next part of the story, however, you suddenly find yourself smiling. “Then one day, _sensei_ ’s business partner – his best friend in law school, also – appeared to hit _sensei_ over the head.”

As would be expected, Hansen recoils, just a little bit. “But _why_?”

“Turns out knocking him out cold was the only way _anyone_ could get him to stop working and start _sleeping_.” you shake your head fondly, remembering just who you seem to have absorbed your perennial sleeplessness - and subsequent morning grumpiness - from. “Then Miss Tamsin would tidy up some papers and take me out for ice cream.”

“She seems like a good person.”

“She really _was_ ,” you say in reply, smiling wanly. “ _Sensei_ and I – we weren’t the only ones who didn’t take her passing well.”

You’re done with the three cupcake pans - had you been talking for that long already? Hansen pushes two of them into the preheated oven, fiddles with the controls and then takes a seat on the stool facing your own. “So you wanted to be an accountant to follow in both their footsteps?”

You smile. Quite surprisingly, despite the hypothetical nepotism, nobody’s ever put it quite like that before. “For the most part. The Sevier-Pentecost accounting firm’s tagline used to be something fancy and Latin, but Miss Tamsin told me it meant _the truth matters_. And I think it should.”

“Good. That makes two of us who think so, then.”

* * *

 

None of the cupcakes have been frosted, yet. Hansen made buttercream – simple, plain, beaten butter and powdered sugar – but from the look on his face it doesn’t seem like he’s satisfied just yet.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that the order only specified Earl Grey cupcakes. No specifics for frosting.” Hansen sighs, running a hand over his hair. “Plain is fine, but I’ve been using plain frosting for the past three orders, maybe I should switch it up a little? But chocolate’s a no-go, too rich, on that note, cream cheese, too…”

“Lemon.”

“Pardon?”

“Maybe you should try lemon? I’m no baker, but, well. Back home we consume a startling amount of Earl Grey.” you tell him. “Lemon slices always make everything better.”

There’s a flash of surprise on Hansen’s face, but he swallows it back quickly, and smiles. “You know what, Mori, I think you’re right.”


	3. Delectus personarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mako is woken up from a nice period of dreamless slumber to the news that her best friend and her new friend are two insults away from making a bloody mess in the hallway. Raleigh is overprotective as ever, Sasha hoards her sweets, Chuck and Mako talk over another batch of cupcakes, and Yancy just didn’t sign up for all of this, okay.

****

_**Delectus personarum.** Latin, Choice of the person._

_By this term is understood the right of partners to exercise their choice and preference as to the admission of any new members to the partnership, and as to the persons to be so admitted, if any. The doctrine is equally applicable to close and family corporations and is exemplified in the use of restrictions for the transfer of shares of stock._

* * *

 

“Mako, darling, love of my platonic life –”

“– _ngh_ –  “

“– yes, I am _aware_ of your stand against early mornings. But _wake up_.”

You do so, grudgingly, eyes squinted and hair terribly, comically, out-of-place. You fix Sasha with a look that, had you not been in sleepwear, could have sent _professors_ quaking in their nice leather shoes. “ _What now._ ”

Sasha, as would be predicted, however, is not affected by such a face of yours _at all_. She jerks her chin towards what would seem to be the approximate direction of your front door. “See, I have loaned _Mishka_ my room for the night  –  he was drunk, and also taking up too much space on _everything_   –  and I know how you feel about mornings, so I had to excuse myself to the couch for the evening…until, well, this morning.” Sasha bites down on her lower lip, as if contemplating a bad memory. “They were _so_ noisy. I couldn't sleep.”

“Neither can _I_ , apparently.” you groan, trying to rub the sleep away from your eyes. It was a long night, in between dealing with having too many caselets and having too little coffee. “Get to the point, pretty please?”

She looks at you, gravely, seriously. You decide to leave asking her why in the world her pet name for Aleksis – _Aleksis_ – is _teddy bear_ for later. “We have a knight in shining armor situation, sweet. It’s your buddies Becket and Hansen.”

You grimace. As the months passed it became a touch easier for people to just _accept_ the shut-in Charles Hansen and his bargaining, uncharacteristic friendship with you, most of all for Sasha, who understood _everything_. But apparently she actually _didn’t_ –

“I don’t _need_ a knight in shining armor, Sasha.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Of course you don't _need_ one, because you _are_ one. Now go,” she says, hauling you up to some approximation of standing up. “Before those two damsels bickering outside decide to screw _everything_ and fling each other off a building, or something.”

You groan as you struggle to put one foot out of the covers, then, another. “Like Sherlock and Moriarty?”

“A version with less dramatics and more force, I am afraid. Both of your friends are _ridiculously_ built.”

“If we're talking about men and muscles again - ngh, I _am_ not awake enough for this. You _are_ aware that your boyfriend is the most muscular of them all, right?”

“Yes. Just like Snow White in reverse.”

You grab an electric blue beanie off the coat hanger (alarmingly bright, and also only minimally lumpy, a gift from Raleigh last Christmas day), and attempt to shove your unruly hair under it, as you slowly regain control of your senses and begin walking under your own power. True enough, as you and Sasha walk closer to the door, the noises grow louder.

“How is Aleksis not even _stirring_?” you look at Sasha, quizzically, before turning to fumble with the locks. “I thought the two of you _never_ got drunk.”

“One of Hermann’s classmates brought in something called _lambanog_. I shall tell the humorous tale at my love’s expense later, in the meantime, Mako, _please_ –”

“Oh, okay, _fine_ , here goes –”

You have no idea where the conversation may have started, or, God forbid, how it would have _ended_ , but you do know that when you open the door to room G-02 you see Raleigh Becket and Charles Hansen, each with a fistful of each other’s shirt in hand, shouting unintelligible things. Off to the side, Yancy Becket stands, groaning like a man who definitely did not sign up for this. Like _you_ , then.

They’re all up in each other’s faces, so much that all it’d take would be _one_ push to – no, stop, Mako, _stop imagining_.

“ _Boys_ ,” you say, in your best ‘cancelling the apocalypse’ voice, which apparently brings to mind a younger, female version of the imposing Stacker Pentecost. Both grown men flinch and abruptly let go of each other, so you sigh, and turn to the third man in the hallway. “Mister Becket. Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Miss Mori. Why are you Raleigh's best friend, again?”

You smirk, convening with the elder Becket brother in mock disappointment. “You see, Mister Becket, it is simply because _you_ already graduated.”

“ _Mako_!” Raleigh groans, and if you were both twelve years younger you’d have bet fair money he’d have attached himself to you like a puppy to its mum by now. “I’m sorry for waking you up, really am, but this guy was hanging around your door, acting like a total _creep_ –”

“Oi, oi, _can it_ , Becket.” Hansen frowns at your best friend, cracking a knuckle absently. “I was not _hanging around_. I literally just _arrived_.”

“Okay, now both of you shut _up_ and stop cracking knuckles, Hansen, do not think I _conveniently_ forgot to brush up on subconscious body language.” you groan, resisting the urge to just drag both men bodily down the hallway, by the collar. Like a mother cat getting in the way of her warring kittens.

“Raleigh, it’s not nice to start a fight with all the men who happen to show up on my front door, just because they _exist_. I know you’re just exercising caution, but – my classmate, he didn’t need to be sent _crying_ down the halls just because he decided to drop off my photocopies?”

Raleigh’s mouth twists a little at the memory, but he doesn’t seem particularly sorry, for _anything_. “You’re good as a sister to me, Mako. I only want you to have _nothing_ but the best.”

You roll your eyes. You just _have_ to. Misplaced chivalry aside, however, Raleigh’s your best friend and…well, you understand what he’s saying. How many women – actual _girlfriends_ of his – have you scared off of him, either directly or not? The number is far too many to count.

“Hansen.” you say, turning to the other man. “I have no idea what you are doing here, but if you don’t like Raleigh, you know well as I do that he’s my next-door neighbor. Maybe you could’ve just sent a message?”

Hansen motions to a mostly-forgotten box from behind him, in familiar grey. “ _Surprisingly_ , Mori, I wasn’t here for you. Your roomie ordered Hummingbird cupcakes, yanno.”

Sasha goes out into the hallway to take said box, grinning. As she walks past you can smell hints of pineapple. “Oh, right! I forgot delivery was today…I’ll be keeping myself busy with this. Care to help me set the table, Yancy?”

Yancy sighs, probably just thankful to be ushered away from his little brother and the drama of underclassmen. “Okay, Sasha, just let me get the bacon.”

“Lovely! We’ll save some for you later, Mako – don’t look at me like that, they’re _your_ friends, _you_ chose to keep them, _you_ deal with them, love.”

“I did not sign up for this, I really didn’t.” you murmur, groaning, only to remember something, rather, a lot of things –

  * Hansen came here not to meet you, as he always does, but to make a delivery.
  * Hansen knows all of his customers’ schedules, and therefore only delivers when he knows that the customer is out, or the customer is in, but the rooms directly adjacent to his have been vacated.
  * You and Sasha belong in the ranks of Hansen’s most valued customers. This was not just your personal bias speaking - Hansen showed you the actual, individual customer accounts-receivable ledgers.
  * Everybody and their mothers know that Raleigh Becket, charming Management major, and Charles Hansen, surly Accounting major, just could not ever seem to get along. Ever.
  * Everybody and their mothers also know that Raleigh Becket is your best friend.
  * Raleigh Becket is also your _next-door neighbor_.



All things considered, this situation – Raleigh seeing Hansen delivering in behalf of Maximillian – seems to be rather Not Good.

However, upon seeing the grey box, Raleigh only looks at Hansen with the barest hint of amusement.

“ _Still_ doing a good job on the work, I see?”

“Do _shut_ absolutely _up_ , Becket.”

“Oh, _Hansen_ – wait, Raleigh, you _knew_?”

“Once upon a time, Mako, this little stick in the mud didn’t use to be such a jerk, you know.” Raleigh says, grinning. “You remember my little stint in MMOs? One of the people you met on chat was me, again, which was a little amazing.” He jerks his head Hansen’s direction, stage-whispering. “The other one was _this_ guy, which was a little _nauseating_.”

“For you and me _both_.” Hansen drawls, rolling his eyes.

“We were friends, for a while, which is why I know about his ongoing future conglomerate – but, as you may see, we cannot get along, owing to the fact that I’m not an ass, and he very clearly _is_.”

“Mori, I _know_ he’s your best friend, which is why I’m going off somewhere else, where I can preferably not _punch him_.” He tips his cap to you in a gesture that would otherwise had been called mocking – there was a cap on his head the whole time, a grey baseball cap rather close to the colors of the Maximillian boxes, and you suddenly find yourself hyperaware of the randomly-placed electric blue beanie on your head. “Morning.”

“Morning – I’ll see you when I see you?” you say. “ _Do_ try not to punch anyone.”

“Noted,” Hansen replies, tone a bit patronizing, before he jogs down the hallway.

Beside you, Raleigh is absolutely _glowing_ as Hansen exits, even waving at the departing man. You turn to him, glare, and point the direction from whence you came.

“ _Inside_.”

Raleigh takes one look at you, and sighs. “Yance,” he calls out to his brother as you both enter the warmer space of G-02. “Mako’s being angry and disappointed. Again.”

“That’s what happens when she wakes up to news of you wanting to punch her friends, Rals.” Yancy replies, chidingly, as he helps Sasha set the table.

Beside the heaping plates of bacon and fried eggs are spicy sausages and toasted rolls, as well as Sasha’s box of cupcakes. One of the cupcakes is in Sasha’s hands, and she plucks off the dried pineapple ‘flower’ to nibble on it.

Yancy's back had been turned away from Sasha the whole time, but he gestures her direction with a fork. “Sasha. Sweets _after_ breakfast – we talked about this.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and sticks out a tongue at Yancy, who pouts in return. Graduates, graduating students. How _mature_. “Fine, _Dad_.”

You groan a little more, pulling off the beanie and scrubbing at your unruly hair in earnest. You do not have enough caffeine to further deal with this. “ _Eurgh_.”

Raleigh appears at your side then, offering you a steaming mug of what seems to be coffee, as if he has read your mind.

Overprotective mess he might be, but he’s _your_ overprotective mess and you _still_ won’t switch him for anyone else in the world.

“Thank you.” you say, still a hint groggily.

“You know…maybe I _could_ get behind the idea of you being pals with Hansen.” Raleigh murmurs, a bit grudgingly, as you guzzle down coffee as if there's no tomorrow. “I know you’ll be able to kick his butt, any time.”

“‘Kick his butt’ – do you hear yourself _talking_ right now, Raleigh?”

“Yes, and I make all the sense. You’ll be fine around him, because you can always keep him in line. Like what you always do to me.” Raleigh frowns, but not genuinely.

You look at him, deadpan, wit finally returned by the caffeine. “I do that because I care, Raleigh.”

“So do I, Mako.” replies your best friend, blue eyes looking adoringly at you, like the big golden retriever he really is at heart. “So do I.”

“Hey, Yancy,” Sasha says, with a playful grin. “I thought no _sweets_ until _after_ breakfast – what about these two and their Public Displays of Platonic Affection?”

Yancy only clicks his tongue, and continues eating.

* * *

 

“How long have you known Becket?”

“Be _specific_ , Hansen.” you reply, carefully adding some of the buttermilk to the mixture. As time goes by, the tangerine color of Chuck’s stand mixer starts to become comforting. “The older or the younger?”

“Be _relevant_ , Mori. Of course I’m referring to the younger. Remember? The one who spent freshman year stuck to you.”

“Gosh, Hansen, and here I thought you 'didn’t like noticing people'.” you say, sarcastically. Except it wasn’t sarcasm – he had told you that himself, that he didn’t particularly like socialization.

“I don’t like noticing people, true, but somehow I find yourself noticing _you_.” Chuck says, definitely _not_ looking your direction.

In a different world, in a different contextual situation perhaps, this is the part where you’ll fall head over heels in love for him.

But you’re not in a different world, or in a different contextual situation. All you are right now is _right here_.

“What a flattering, and _chilling_ thought.” you say, reverting back to your sarcasm in an effort to scare away the flush from his cheeks. And what can you say, it works.

“Having an overgrown teenager clinging to you makes you the easiest person to notice, Mori.” he says, frowning. You’ve been adding ingredients in turns, and he moves closer to drop in some of the cream soda. “What _was_ he doing in Accountancy, anyway? Isn’t he a Management major?”

“Yes, but since we were having basic subjects back then anyway, he decided to take as much subjects with me as he possibly could – apparently, had he taken the normal HR classes instead of being an irregular, he’d have been appointed Class President like what happened to Yancy. He didn’t like the idea, said it’d make things ‘less fun’.”

“Hmm. I can see where he’s coming from. But don’t tell him that.”

“My lips are sealed.” you tell him, tipping in the last of the dry ingredient mixture. “And to answer your first question, we were eleven. He was the first friend I ever made, actually.”

“Oh? I find that hard to believe.”

“I find it hard to believe that _you_ don’t have much in the friends department, yourself, but you don’t see me wondering about it.”

“Oh, _shush_.” Chuck says. “I’m not a team player, apparently. Arrogant, egotistical, brash and hard to talk to. Come to think of it, when they lay it all out like that, they make me sound like Iron Man.”

“Maybe that’s it, then? Maybe you _are_ Iron Man?”

“Mori, I’d know if I was running on an arc reactor, trust me.” Batter finally done, Chuck gingerly removes the mixing bowl from the stand mixer, folds in some of the toffee you had chopped up earlier. “In the meantime, though, can you –”

“Yes, I can and _will_ fill up the cupcake pans, because my hands aren’t shaking, because I did not drink too much coffee today, unlike _some people_.”

“Can it, it’s not as if you’re one to talk, Mori.” Chuck says, flexing his fingers and frowning. “Only three-fourths full. And _be careful_.”

You roll your eyes, the very picture of petulance. “Yes, _Dad_.”

“What is it with you and Volkova and calling people your fathers?”

“In our defense, Yancy’s been like a sort of father figure to us all, and in my defense, you worry too much. You taught me this recipe, you forget, and if there’s anyone more of a perfectionist than I am it would _obviously_ be you.” you reply, filling up the cupcake pan with ease, looking at him.

“Don’t look at me, Mori, look at the _pan_ –”

“No, no, I’m fine.” you say, shaking your head. “Now put everything down on the counter – yes, even the spatula – then, sit down on your nice couch, and…is rest such a foreign concept to you, Hansen?”

“Fine. I was about to excuse myself, anyway.” Chuck unties the apron from his waist, flings it over the back of one of his chairs, and heads back into his living room. “I missed my nap, earlier.”

“Oh? You did?” you pause in filling the cups, bracing yourself for saying an apology or…well. Something. Chuck already sleeps a sum total of four-and-a-half hours a day at most, and being the reason of him missing a crucial twenty-minute set is unsettling.

“It’s fine, Mori, it’s not your fault I’m not used to entertaining guests.” Chuck says, rolling his eyes much like you did earlier. “You’ll be leaving for Law later, anyway. Lock the door before you leave.”

You fill the rest of the pans without incident, except for when you finish off the rest of the can of cream soda – Chuck won’t _dare_ mind, you brought him an entire six-pack, damn it. Then you put the trays in the oven, and set the timer.

With the scheduled time allotment, the cupcakes would be cooked and mildly cooled-off when Chuck wakes up.

You head to the fridge, check how the frosting is doing, then you tiptoe to where your friend is, sleeping atop his couch. You look at him, mutter something about him wasting his perfectly comfortable bed, and begin plucking out your reviewers from the paper whirlwind his sitting room has become.

After stuffing said reviewers into your backpack, you look at your sleeping friend, and smile.

* * *

 

When Chuck Hansen wakes up twenty minutes later, the door is locked and there is a blanket draped over his shoulders.

When Chuck Hansen wakes up twenty minutes later, the apartment is empty, so there is nobody there to notice the corners of his mouth turning up into what seems to be a smile.

…save for Max, of course, but he sure as hell isn’t telling anybody. Little bugger _does_ have his loyalties, after all.


	4. Pro rata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stacker Pentecost invites his adoptive daughter’s friend, Charles “Chuck” Hansen, over dinner, not for scaring any romantic intentions the younger man may have had out of him (like a certain Raleigh Becket may have said), but for another thing – which may be more or less upsetting, depending on what Chuck may have in mind about it.

****

_**Pro rata.** Latin, Proportionately.] _

_A phrase that describes a division made according to a certain rate, percentage, or share._

* * *

 

The dial tone beeps once, twice, thrice, before the line goes live.

“Hansen? Charles Hansen.” You stop calling for your friend’s name when he groans. The guy keeps weird sleep schedules, honestly – it’s three-o’clock on a no-class Monday afternoon. He calls it “polyphasic sleep”. You call it preposterous.

“This is Mako Mori…we’ve been summoned.”

“ _Excellent_ day to you too, Mori,” Chuck pauses to yawn, presumably regaining his senses as his next words are said with his usual brash solemnity.  “– summoned? What do you mean when you say _summoned_?”

“What I _mean_ is,” _Summoned_ probably wasn’t your best choice of words, but what else would you have used, with the necessary context in mind? “ _Sensei_ wants us over for dinner.”

At that, the only thing you get in reply is the sound of Chuck Hansen's breathing. Surely he hasn’t fallen asleep on you, again? ...of course he hasn’t. He isn’t due for another nap ‘till nine in the morning.

“Hansen?”

“ _Damn_. Did I do something wrong, this time? Flunk his subject, or something?”

The panic in his voice was minute, but you’ve known him for months now, so there's no use for him to hide it. “Oh, _relax_. And people say _I’m_ the paranoid one…Pick you up at six?”

Chuck Hansen only sighs. “…as if I had a choice.”

* * *

 

Stacker Pentecost lives in a house of his own, which is around thirty minutes away from the Shatterdome.

You never truly did know _who_ first started calling your dorm that, but you _do_ know that there’s a greenhouse on the rooftop with thin, domed, glass roofs that birds keep crashing into.

The streets of this particular part of the city tend to be named after foreign cities – from Anchorage to Lima to Vladivostok – and mostly seem to be populated by townhouses or apartment complexes.

In the middle of all this is the house you used to share with your _sensei_ , that is, the house you once lived in before you roomed in with Sasha at the Shatterdome.

Needless to say, the drive from university grounds to the street not-so-originally-named Hong Kong – it was _terrible_. Or at least, that is what Hansen tells you.

“You, Mako Mori,” He tells you, indignant, as he tries not to wobble out of your car. “Are a _horrible_ driver.”

“Well, at least I _can_ drive, thank you very much.” you retort, waggling your license in his face. It's worth it, if only to get the privilege of hearing Hansen – grimacing, mostly-put-together Charles Hansen – _sputter_.

“Stop beating the double-dead horse, Mori.” your friend snaps, but there is a faint flush dusting his cheekbones that cannot just be from the cold. “I can't help it if I don't test well, _okay_?”

“Okay, fine. You can always do a re-take.” You reply, detaching a key ring from one of your belt loops, picking out the house keys.

Opening the door, you murmur softly to yourself. “ _Tadaima_.” Before entering the foyer, you slip off your flats, changing into the fluffy sky blue slippers reserved for your use. “By now...he'd be cooking, I reckon.”

“How would you say that?” Hansen muses, as he follows your lead and unlaces his trainers.

You look at him, deadpan, as you wave a pair of plain visitor-slippers his direction. “You've missed the smell coming from the kitchen? That _is_ a dead giveaway.”

He catches the slippers as you toss them, only to fix you with a confused expression. “Attorney Pentecost – he _cooks_?”

“It's a relaxant for him. He's also very good at it. Don't look so surprised, now – you do the _exact same thing_!”

“Yeah, I know, but it's _Attorney Pentecost_. You know, stern guy, great ‘stache, built like a goddamned _tank_ –”

You decide not to point out that Hansen is tall, tanned, and can carry sacks of flour with one arm, and yet he bakes fluffy pastel cupcakes with a bright tangerine KitchenAid. That's what he is, and he knows that and it's _fine_ , but he doesn't particularly like being introspective about it. So you try to redirect the subject.

“See, and here I was thinking I _finally_ got a friend who _didn’t_ have a crush on the man who _raised_ me.”

“Don’t be _silly_ , Mako, of course I am _not_ secretly yearning to be your stepdad – wait, no, _eurgh_ , does that mean that _Becket_ –”

“Let’s not talk about such things before dinner, _please_.” You and Raleigh were both very young, very silly, and both with very hyperactive imaginations.

On that note, you decide it best not to tell Chuck that you once harbored the silliest of infatuations for Engineer Hansen. _Ever_.

 _“Sensei’s_ probably waiting for us by now, oh don’t drag your feet, Charles, if you did something that would make _sensei_ smite you _I’d_ had lopped off your head _two weeks ago_.”

“I heard that. She’s tellin’ the truth, Hansen.” _Sensei_ calls from the other side of the door, his voice booming throughout the house. Chuck flinches; you chuckle at his sudden bout of nerves. “Come along, Mako- _san_ , Charles, dinner’s ready.”

The two of you enter the dining room, and sit across from what would be Stacker Pentecost’s place on the table. Dinner, as it stands, is tagliatelle, which is good because you remember your _sensei’s_ predilection for fresh pasta.

“ _Itadakimasu,_ ” you murmur, vaguely clasping your hands, and _Sensei_ does the same, both of you inclining your heads briefly to honor the food. Hansen mimics you both, though his lips stay resolutely closed.

The first few minutes of the meal are then spent relishing in the fact that you really _did_ miss _Sensei’s_ cooking. Both of you had always been so busy with school and work and all its necessary trappings, but every night he would _always_ find time to cook you something – usually something simple, like pasta or pre-cooked stew, but sometimes something more complex, like _osso bucco_ or those pizzas you spent too many hours spinning around.

 _Sensei_ taught you, so you aren’t much of a slouch in the culinary department, but there’s really nothing that can compare with food made by your family. Adoptive or otherwise.

“This is really good, Attorney Pentecost.” Hansen says, carefully. “I never knew you cooked.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t _have_ to know, Charles.” _Sensei_ replies, managing to make eating simple pasta look classy. “But since you’re Mako’s _friend_ , now…well, that’s something you’ll find out about eventually.”

Hansen’s eyes are resolutely downcast now, which eerily reminds you of the time when Raleigh had first met _Sensei_ , as well. Was _that_ dinner really already seven years ago? “Yes, sir.”

There must be something in Chuck Hansen’s eyes that tips _Sensei_ off, because suddenly there’s a smile on his face and a reassuring tone to his voice. “Oh – is _that_ what you’re fussing about? Chin up, Charles, there’s no need.”

Stacker Pentecost’s eyes are almost playful when he looks at your friend, who seems to have reverted to the language skills of a sleeping newborn. “Whatever Mako’s favourite Becket boy’s been telling you about me, I can assure you, it isn’t true.”

“Thank _God_ ,” Hansen honestly, earnestly _sighs_ , and _Sensei_ lets out a soft chuckle.

“Wait, Hansen, what _had_ Raleigh been telling you?”

“Nothing important,” he replies, then guzzles down his drink like there’s no tomorrow. “Just: your bestie, he _lies_.”

“I know, Hansen, I _taught_ him.” you say, which earns you an approving smirk from _Sensei_ and a choking sound from Hansen…wasn’t it supposed to be the other way ‘round? “Seriously though. What did he tell you?”

“Most probably the same thing Tamsin told him, before.” Sensei muses, smiling the whole while. “That I'll knock the daylights out of him if I find out he's in love with Mako. Which I won't.” He fixes Chuck with a stare, which the younger man tries to match. “I save that for when you screw up, which I suggest you never do. Are we clear?”

“Yessir,” Chuck replies, eyebrows still resolutely knotted. “We're not...we're not in love, though.”

It's really true - you aren't. Sure, Chuck comes over a lot to fuss over your reviewer organization skills, or sheer lack thereof, and you visit him a lot to try to shift him over to monophasic sleep, but you're friends. You're friends, and you can't say you've started seeing each other in a different light because you're not a pair of friends in a romance novel. You just are, somehow.

Maybe it'll change, maybe it won't, but right now you've been friends for all of _two months_ and you're all too busy with getting to know each other to even _consider_ falling in love.

And, besides. You're Accountancy majors. Your priority is _not failing_.

“Trust me. I know what it feels like. Well. Sort of.” _Sensei_ says, settling into his chair, and you begin thinking about Miss Tamsin, and about how everyone thought they were going to get together, whether or not her cancer got in the way.

“When I was in college, I had a friend too. My pre-law course is the same as Mako's, Accountancy. Seeing the two of you...well. You both remind me of her.”

Now, though, you think there's no way this can be about Miss Tamsin. She and _Sensei_ met and bonded when _Sensei_ was halfway through his degree, and her pre-law course had been _Psychology_.

“People thought we were in love, too, but I won't fault them.” _Sensei_ continues on. “She was a beautiful young woman – kind, stubborn, and a bit of a workaholic. We used to spend late nights bickering over balancing accounts.”

You swallow down a lump that suddenly formed in your throat, hoping that _Sensei_ is using the past tense merely to refer to past events, not to refer to a deceased person.

From the look on his face, though, you have the sinking feeling that your hope is in vain.

“We weren't in love with each other, but she was in love with someone, and if there was anything dear Angie was the best at,” Sensei shook his head, adoringly, like a proud big brother. You find yourself thinking Auntie Luna had been a very lucky woman. “It was a mean red velvet cupcake.”

You look at Chuck, the sinking feeling in your stomach increasing. Chuck looks back at you, an expression of thinly-veiled confusion on his face. He shrugs.

“Whenever I'd have a birthday, she'd always make me celebrate. Now, I don't have much of a sweet tooth, but when she baked...well, I told Herc that he was a lucky young man.”

Suddenly, you remember how Chuck learned all his recipes from his mum, and how her name had been _Angela_.

“And yes, Charles.” Sensei tells your friend, a serene expression on his face. “That is how I know that _you are Maximillian_.”

* * *

 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, shattering the fragile and awkward silence.

It's not the best thing you could’ve done – leave your friend alone with the knowledge that he is eating at the table of his deceased mother’s best friend – but you’ve drunk too much iced tea and the choice really isn’t in your hands, this time.

When you return, however, you can’t bring yourself to join them.

“Have you talked to him _at all_ since then?”

“Sir.” Chuck’s head stays down; he is adamantly _not_ looking at _Sensei_.

“That’s not an answer, Charles.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Chuck replies, face flushed and eyes hurt. “… _Sir_.” He tacks on, remembering himself.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m your godfather, so yeah, I guess this is my business, now.” _Sensei_ replies, with a sigh that exudes an aura of defeat. “ _Heaven help me_.”

Chuck bites his lips closed and returns to finding your floor tiles interesting. You think maybe you can go inside now…

“He loves you, you know.” _Sensei_ starts, and you take a hurried half-step back behind the doorframe.

“…”

“…but what am I talking about? _Of course_ you know he loves you. You won’t be making such an effort to avoid him if he wasn’t important to you, in a way.”

“With all due respect, sir, of course that is what he shall tell you.”

“You know what that anger is? Hot anger, all emotion, no actual _sense_. Hot anger _doesn’t_ win cases, son, cold anger does, and if you don’t know the difference you’re _doomed_.” Sensei snaps back. You think you can hear Chuck’s mouth audibly snap shut. “Granted. Let’s say you aren’t going to go into the law profession. But still. A _proper_ _accountant_ has no use for _daddy issues_.”

Had Stacker Pentecost not been, well, _Stacker Pentecost_ , you have the feeling that punches would most probably been flying some ten minutes ago.

“If you’ve been paying attention in class, like I’d _suggest_ you do, you’d have noticed that an accountant is expected to be _neutral_ in any and all occasions. This is because if an accountant gives way to his emotions and filters all the data through his own perception, not the IFRS, it brings forth the worst of all mistakes. Errors. Miscalculations. Fraud. All things that could _destroy_ you.”

“But _sir_ – “

“You don’t have to pretend you magically love him back. You’re not a child. Herc isn't stupid. But. Acknowledge that he’s your _dad_ , that he’s _here_ , and that that is all that should matter.” _Sensei_ pauses to cough, and you flinch – has he caught the flu, _again_? “Because it is.”

“Even if he, if he _left_ – “

“He regrets leaving _both of them_ as much as you did, Charles.” _Sensei_ says, speaking over whatever Chuck might have said. “He’d have burned himself to a crisp if it meant saving all three of you. But – but the foundation got in the way, and Angie had him swear to take care of you as the house crumbled, and…well. He’s trying. You aren’t exactly making it easy, you know.”

Chuck stays silent.

“You’re the only one he has left. I suggest you make the most of it.”

The thing with hiding behind a doorframe is that you can’t actually see them both, but from what you can hear – _Sensei_ sounds so sad.

Then, you remember, _of course_ – Auntie Luna, the bravest and fiercest detective you’ve ever known, and how she’d died on a field operation gone terribly wrong. You remember Miss Tamsin, _Sensei_ ’s smart and witty law firm partner, and how all her fire was nothing compared to the cancer that destroyed her.

You remember your parents, who had been friends of _Sensei_ ’s, and how they had entrusted you to him in their will, how it had been put to use after the mugging that took them both.

You remember that _of course Sensei knows how Engineer Hansen feels,_ because the Engineer only has Chuck and _Sensei_ only has _you_.

“Make the most of it, Charles, because if you’re not careful – _if you don’t take the shot being offered you_ – you might lose your chance. Forever.” _Sensei_ swallows, or was that Chuck? “Am I understood?”

Silence. You think Chuck has done something, though – nodded, shrugged? But apparently whatever that was hadn’t been enough, because _Sensei_ ’s clicking his tongue.

“Again, not an answer. Am I _understood_?” You’d give good money to bet that _Sensei_ ’s doing his haughty _I-can’t-hear-you_ ear-tapping gesture again.

“Yes.” Chuck replies, and even if you can’t see him you swear that faint undertone to Chuck’s voice could only have meant _tears_. “ _Sir_.”

* * *

 

The ride home is eerily quiet, and that's putting it lightly.

Chuck's hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his fluffy jacket, which does nothing because you can see the sweat beading at his temples and really, outside your car’s hesitant air conditioning, he has no business wearing a jacket like that in a weather like this.

Unless he wants to die of heatstroke, which is worrying.

Asking him something dull like _are you okay_ would be both trite _and_ obvious, but you have to ask something, say something. Say _anything_.

“You once told me that you found it interesting that I ordered Apple Pie cupcakes. How so?”

Well, that isn’t just _anything_ – you really always did want to ask him that, ever since he had told you – but it’s unrelated to dead mums and absent dads enough that the fists Chuck had shoved into his pockets eventually unclench.

“Yeah, well.” he starts, and finally realizes that he doesn’t need a jacket, so why the hell is he wearing one? “I thought it just wasn’t your type. Keep in mind that I didn’t know you much – you seemed quiet, with a minimalistic aesthetic, so I thought, maybe you had a taste for the classics? Say, vanilla, dark chocolate, salted caramel.”

He pauses, then, to attempt pulling the jacket off while still strapped into the passenger’s seat. As the jacket is fluffy, and Chuck is not a small-framed person, this attempt turns out to be more humorous than successful, so you eventually take pity on him to pull over at a nearby gas station.

Chuck unbuckles himself from the seat, strips off his jacket, and tosses it behind you. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, focusing once more on the arduous task of putting the vehicle back on the road. You wait until you have turned the corner to prompt him again. “So, what’s so alarming about Apple Pie?”

“Well, it’s not _alarming_ , per se, but it’s not a common flavor – especially considering the cinnamon frosting, people usually don’t like cinnamon frosting. But the more I know about you, the more it makes sense.”

“And this was before or after I found out about Maximillian?”

“A mix of both, actually,” Chuck replies. “You have blue streaks in your hair, for crying out loud, you’re not afraid to be different. Apple-cinnamon is comfort food, and if there’s anyone who needs _comforting_ –”

“It would be an Accountancy student working on three hours of sleep?”

“Precisely. And besides, you seem to like fruits.”

“Apples hold more caffeine than coffee itself, apparently.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You both spend the ride home in a comfortable silence, your focus laser-sharp on the roads in front of you. Beside you, from what you can see in your peripheral vision, Chuck seems to be counting out things on his fingers.

You sigh. Chuck has an impressive long-term memory, but when it came to shopping lists or other things that went to the short-term… “Do you need me to remember something for you?”

“No, no, Mako, there’s no need. It’s just another order.”

“But I thought that you were done with your quota for the week?” you ask. Chuck actually has no quota over his weekly production, but you bullied him into following one, after too many instances of seeing him drowsily overmix batter.

 “Well, but this one’s… _different_.”

“Fine, fine, as long as you only take the one.” you concede, pulling into your designated parking spot. “I’ll be going for a run at the supermarket tomorrow morning, anyways…anything in particular that you want me to pick up?”

Chuck purses his lips, looking as if he is either considering the idea or is embarrassed over… _something_ , you just cannot tell. Either way, he doesn’t speak until the exact moment when he is about to lock the door of E-02 behind him.

“Red food coloring.”


	5. Pro tanto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As this silly university AU comes to a close, the Maximillian Bakery re-opens under new management, the new partners hold what seems to be an impromptu party, and the first Jaeger prototype is revealed.

****

_**Pro tanto**. Latin, For so much; for as much as one is able; as far as one can go._

_A term that refers to a partial payment made on a claim._

* * *

 

You’re in your chair, splitting your attention evenly among your mobile, your notes, and your friend working behind the counter of G-02’s kitchen. You have no idea why he decided to work out of your flat for the day, only that he’s been at it for a while and the entire flat now smells of cinnamon.

“So we’re keeping the name, yeah?”

“Chuck, don’t be _absurd_ ,” you say, nestling deeper into your overstuffed chair. “You don't have to adjust _everything_ to accommodate me.”

“Mako, that _is_ what deciding to work with me means.” your friend snaps, waving the hand mixer at you. The ends are coated with what seems to be creamed butter, with the barest hint of cinnamon. “We’re closing the sole proprietorship to make way for a partnership. That means I actually have to accommodate for you, since we’re partners. That is what partners do.”

“Well, that’s good of you, but don’t change the name while you’re at it – first, if we were doing a business merger, your goodwill would be off the charts, so the name stays.”

“Thank you for that _specifically_ - _worded_ compliment,” Chuck replies, whipping the cream cheese and sugar with a hand mixer that _whirr_ ed noisily as his hand moved.

“ _Secondly,_ ” you say, holding out two fingers for proper emphasis, because you don’t have a hand mixer you can gesticulate dramatically with, unlike _some people_. “I know the name is important to you. It clearly is, because you named it after Max the bulldog, who you adore more than life itself.”

Chuck stops mixing, and you are suddenly struck by a rush of déjà vu. It's like what he did during the first time you met - _another_ pressure point. Between the two of you, you haven't had much of those, in a while. “I named it after someone else, actually.”

“Well,” you say, carefully, putting your mobile down. You reckon the pretty PDF of Cash Flow Statement construction techniques won't mind if you set them aside for now. “Still. It doesn’t change anything. Whoever it is, I know they're important to you. I won't make you change the name, Chuck, I mean it.”

Chuck thins his lips, like he always does when he’s chasing something back from whence it came. When you were getting to know each other, it used to be a common expression on him.

“Chuck. Can you hear me?”

“Oh! Ehrm.” Chuck replies, shaking his head and frowning. He unwraps a block of cream cheese, and dumps it in the mixing bowl. “Was I out of it? Again?”

“You have got to stop chasing the rabbit, Chuck.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. I mean…it’s an inside joke. If you can call it a joke…me and Raleigh, we made it up.” you say, eyes downcast and voice quiet. “He said that when I was lost in my memories my eyes tended to glaze over. It was as if my body was there, and my mind was somewhere else…somewhere different, like when Alice was chasing the rabbit to Wonderland. Only my Wonderland was – _is_ – a depressing one, so I shan’t be going there much in the first place.”

“So Becket _can_ make sense from time to time, isn’t that a relief.”

“He’s outrageous most of the time and sometimes I find myself thinking why I like him – oh, don’t look that smug, Chuck, sometimes I find myself thinking that about _you_.”

“How old where you then?” Chuck asks you, suddenly, still beating what seems to be a cream cheese frosting.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“When you and Becket were talking about that…about the memories, the panic attacks.” Chuck extrapolates, though from the look on his eyes it doesn’t seem like he thinks he has a right to ask. You’d feel the same way, asking him. “How old were you then?”

“Well, we weren’t that close then, because I punched him. In the face. Apparently past me didn’t want to be compared to a defenseless little fictional girl.” you reply, and Chuck guffaws, like he always did when you regaled him with stories of Raleigh Becket, and/or you, being silly. “I was around eleven, twelve years old, then.”

Chuck sets down the mixing bowl on the table. He looks oddly contemplative. “Up to now?”

“It’s lessened a great deal, actually. Not because I’ve forgotten about them, but, well. People help, in a way, and so does work. But most of all…I guess what really did help me was closure.” You look at him, see his strained posture, and stand up, gently prying the hand mixer from his fingers. “Burying my dead, winning our case, saying my regrets…they all sound so trite, but they helped.”

“Her name was _Maxine_ ,” Chuck says, quietly, head bowed and hands clenched at his sides. Had your personality been more like Raleigh’s or Sasha’s than your own, you would have had hugged him by now. “She was in mum’s arms, and we couldn’t come back for either of them. I was supposed to be a big brother, Mako.”

“You are, Chuck. You always have been.” _Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean you stop loving them_ , you want to say, but you know he knows that already, because it isn’t supposed to _hurt_ this much, not if there isn’t love involved. “And I’m sure that they’re proud of you.”

The oven timer sets off, signaling that whatever Chuck had been baking is now ready to be unloaded, and the guests are coming any minute now, but – but right now, the both of you stay in that moment, so close without even touching, listening to the other breathe.

* * *

 

“Mako-chan!” Hu exclaims, breaking away from his brothers to sweep you up in a hug. “Where were you? We missed you! We haven’t seen you for…weeks, now.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mako-chan, he’s overreacting.” Cheung says as Hu chuckles in the background. Jin frowns as Cheung reaches over to peel him off of you, and the ease that Cheung uses to sling the youngest triplet over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes – if said sack was human-sized, and wiggled about a lot) was so outrageous you can’t help but laugh.

“Come in, come in.” you somehow manage to say, amongst all the laughter. “The all-seeing chef – that’s Chuck Hansen, of course, who’s being _unbelievably_ snarky today – is hogging the kitchen, so maybe I could interest you in the sitting room instead?”

“Is Aleksis already here?” Jin asks you. You notice a rather large box at his side, and though you already have an idea as to what it is, you decide not to make a comment. The boys will tell you, in time. “I have to talk to him.”

“He’s in Sasha’s room, busy with the new website. Sasha’s been keeping me out of the room too, as well, so…be careful?”

“All right, Mako-chan.” Jin says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head as he passes you. He knocks thrice, and miraculously, Sasha does open the door for him, heavy box and all. You can hear the _clack-clack-clack_ of Aleksis’ keyboard in the background.

It seems, however, that Chuck hasn’t _completely_ been hogging the kitchen, because you can hear him talking to Hu.

“Need some help there, Hansen?”

“No need. Just place your containers on the counter, and forget what you’ve just seen.”

“You _do_ run a tight ship. I’m impressed.”

This means that only you and Cheung have been left alone in the living room.

You’ve never really been one for small talk, but you reckon you can start practicing right now. “How are things?”

“Dreadful, actually.” Cheung moans, unfurling his limbs onto the couch in a picture of pure weariness. “But be it far from me to discourage the next generation.”

“The delegate of the ‘next generation’ sitting in front of you is sleepless, borderline caffeine-dependent, and yet stays resolutely undiscouraged, sir.” you reply in a tone like the way you used to report back to him when he was your CO in high school. You throw in a salute, for kicks; Cheung chuckles.

From the faint sounds of conversation you have a feeling that Hu had joined his brother in Sasha’s room – you can hear four vague voices from there, now, and Chuck seems to have returned to humming some tune in the kitchen.

“Do you know how serious you looked like when you were in full military mode?” Cheung says, with a fond gaze on you. “I’m not saying that you don’t always look serious already, but back then – _whoa_. There was a reason why they called you _The Tsunami_.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “I have the feeling that I am supposed to be offended by you comparing me to a natural disaster.”

“Maybe you should be, but I see the logic.” Cheung replies, a hand at his nape, his smile a bit embarrassed. “Because well, on a good day, you’re like the sea – calm, placid, the works – and when you’re ticked off you’re ferocious and no one could ever stop you. It’s a good thing, actually – because everyone thinks you’re quiet all the time, which makes your anger more potent than you’d think it does.”

“…I have the feeling that you are giving me a compliment. So thank you, Cheung-nii.”

“You’re welcome, Mako-chan, especially for not calling me _senpai_.”

“But you guys wanted me to use Japanese honorifics, and it’s only proper, you’re upperclassmen!”

“Still. You _are_ our little sister, and if we call you _Mako-chan_ it only seems right that you refer to us familiarly, as well. I do see a point, though, in not using our preferred honorific in an academic setting –”

Right there and then Sasha’s bedroom door opens, and when you see the doorframe you can see two-thirds of the Wei Tang triplets dangling from it. “What are you talking about, Cheung? Mako-chan?” Jin asks.

“Bro’s probably telling Mako-chan to lay off with the formalities.” Hu stage-whispers back. “I mean, we know Cheung. He doesn’t like constantly being reminded that he’s _old as_ – “

Cheung doesn’t even look back at his brothers, but he manages to accurately point fingers at them both. “Fifteen minutes,” he says, pointing at Hu, “twenty-eight minutes,” at Jin, “one year.” at you. “I am not _that_ old.” he sighs. The three of you laugh.

Aleksis and Sasha are the next ones to peek from the doorframe, though due to Aleksis’ sheer size it’s not exactly ‘peeking’, seeing as it would take more than Sasha’s flimsy doorframe to fully conceal him. Aleksis follows Hu and Jin to the sitting room to join you first, laptop under his arm, while Sasha shouts in the direction of the kitchen.

“Hansen, we’re up!”

“I _know!_ ” Chuck calls out in reply, as if he weren’t already six steps away from Sasha.

This apparently pleases her, as she chuckles and gives him a resounding smack on the shoulder. It should not make you laugh that he flinches, but it does.

You only very vaguely notice the arrangement your friends seem to have adapted, though – you are flanked at both sides by Cheung and Hu, Jin perched delicately on the second triplet’s side of the arm rest; Aleksis has the armchair to himself, laptop on his lap, still typing; Sasha’s grinning, standing by the hefty white box Jin had been carrying earlier; Chuck’s arms are crossed as he bounces on the balls of his feet, taking a moment or two to peer at what Aleksis is typing.

You can sense a surprise in motion, but you rack your brain for an appropriate holiday and cannot end up with any.

“Oh, _do_ stop overthinking, sweet, it’s an off-day.” Sasha tells you, pouting. “ _Anticipating_ the surprise takes the edge off of it, you know.”

You smile back. Sasha stands five-nine barefoot, an imposing figure sans high heels, but the kicked-puppy-dog look she seems to be affecting right now makes her look all of ten years old. “If you were expecting me to _act_ surprised, though, I fear you really may be disappointed.”

“Of course we don't, Mako-chan,” Cheung tells you, at the same time Jin pipes up with “No - you're a _horrible_ actress.”

You fix Jin with a Glare that makes him relocate to the blind spot behind Aleksis' armchair. Chuck looks on curiously as Aleksis stops typing, most probably to murmur words of comfort to the other man.

“...Anyway. Remember how we didn't give you anything for your last birthday?”

“Don't worry, I understand, Sasha.” you reply, rolling your eyes. “I'm not a child anymore; I wasn't expecting any presents.”

“That is true, but _still_. We did not even get to celebrate! You had classes, the triplets were on vacation, the Beckets were traveling, _Mishka_ and I had our internship - do _not_ laugh, Hu, that is a _perfectly_ serviceable pet name - and you did not even meet _this_ guy, yet.”

From the other side of the room, Sasha had just locked Chuck into what seems to be a milder version of her usual headlock.

“But first things first: Mako, give me a coin.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it, already.”

You toss a coin you salvaged from your trouser pockets, and Sasha catches it with ease. She pockets said coin and crouches down, moving to open the box at her feet. As if moving on cue (or on rusty socializing skills, probably both), as this happens, Chuck disappears to the kitchen.

You don't have much time to contemplate about your friend's behavior, though, because the box is open and Sasha and Aleksis are grinning and the boys are excited and _oh heavens that really is beautiful._

“Oh, it's beautiful.” you say, gingerly removing yourself from the couch to see it up close. “The Jaeger prototype?”

“Yes. The codename is _Crimson Alpha_ \- yes, the paint job, yes, to symbolize it being the first prototype. We were not in a mood for pretentious naming.” Sasha affirms, fiddling with something on her phone. Taking a picture, maybe? “We have not gotten full vocal recognition yet, but we have at least got full articulation.”

The robotic figure starts moving, slowly. It tucks both right arms behind its back, puts its left arm on its chest, takes a half-step backward, and bows.

“Are you guys sure you want to give this to me? You might never see it again.”

“I doubt the 'never seeing it again' part, but yes, we are sure.” Hu replies, nuzzling you affectionately. As Cheung's arm is still around your shoulder, this makes for a rather uncomfortable picture (for Cheung's arm alone, though).

“Besides, Mako-chan.” Cheung says, wringing his arm out of said affectionate nuzzling. “Amongst all of us, _you're_ the responsible one.”

“Thank you,” you reply, a flush slowly making its way across your cheeks. “Cheung-nii, ever the flatterer.”

“Let him be, Mako-chan.” Hu stage-whispers, sniggering. “Between Bro's stuffiness and social awkwardness, his pretty words are all he's got going for him.”

Cheung says something unintelligible in their native language, and Hu's ears perk up, so despite not knowing what exactly the eldest triplet had said, you follow your gut - you take Crimson Alpha in your arms and decide to be as far away from the two boys as possible.

So you set Crimson gingerly down on your feet, and decide to join Aleksis in the quieter side of the room. In the foreground, the Wei Tang triplets are making a mess of themselves while diligently not making a mess of your sitting room.

“Is that the site, Aleksis?”

Aleksis nods his head, once. “Just my luck that Hansen prefers a minimalistic color palette in the first place - the graphics were out of the way soon enough. All that's left is fixing the security options, the online payment options...I cannot _believe_ Hansen agreed to online payment options.”

“Well, it's not like he's taking orders outside of the university...and even when he does, he only takes orders coming from within an immediate radius. We'll only have to worry about too much bad debts when Chuck decides to go _international_.”

You squat down to see the laptop screen, only to find yourself looking at your own self. Or, at least, a cutely-drawn version of you, carrying boxes as an equally cutely-drawn version of Chuck fusses over frosting cupcakes. “Whoa...who's this from?”

“So-yi made it. Then she had Yuna bully Hansen into putting it on the site.” Aleksis replies, smirking. On the screen you see him moving around the links to an image map - further inspection shows you that while the site had stuck to its inaugural colors of cream and grey, the text separators are transparent .png files of untied navy blue ribbon.

“She didn't have to, though.” Aleksis adds, a tilt of curiosity to his careful, booming voice. “Hansen was _adamant_ that your participation in the business be as obvious as was possible.”

“I would have liked to see that.” you say, chuckling. “Yuna already cuts an imposing figure, for a freshman...and, well, it isn't everyday you get to see Chuck Hansen become adamant about something so trite like _teamwork_.”

“He was not adamant about teamwork, Mako.” Aleksis says, shaking his head as his hands go _click-clack-click_ as they fly across the keyboard. “He was just adamant about _you_.”

You flush red. Leave it to Aleksis to say things as they are. “I don’t see why he would be, though.”

“It’s simple, Mako. Everyone knows you’re his _only_ friend.” Aleksis replies, still dragging things around the screen. The title typeface he’s using is beautiful. You wager he did it himself. “He’s not _your_ only friend, that is obvious, but he _is_ important to you, isn’t he?”

You remember how this all started because of a sudden bout of curiosity. You ponder on how, if you never saw him there, if he never took an extra few seconds to retie the ribbon on the box, you might have never been friends with Chuck Hansen.

Therefore, Chuck Hansen might have never been friends with _anyone_.

“Yes, he is.” you say, simply, because there really is nothing else left to say.

* * *

 

“Mako, could you pass me the spatula?”

“That's nice of you, ordering around somebody you had been shooing out of the kitchen some mere - has it really been just _five minutes ago_? Just to pick up something that is probably right beside you.”

You can hear Chuck sigh from inside the kitchen. “Mako. Just come here.”

“Fine, fine, _Your Highness_.” you snap, rolling your eyes as you go over to join him in the kitchen. You open your mouth, about to give him a piece of your mind, only -

\- _only_ –

“It's beautiful, Chuck.” you tell him, smiling. “Thank you.”

Chuck turns minutely to smile back, but he turns away quickly.

In the middle of the kitchen counter is a four-tiered sweets rack, each tier holding more Apple Pie cupcakes than you've ever seen in a single sitting. On the top tier is a different cupcake - not an Apple Pie, judging from the darker color - topped with a fondant recreation of you, down to the pixie cut and your favourite blue shirt.

“You really didn’t have to, though.” you say, taking a cupcake and admiring the clean swirl of frosting on top. “So why _did_ you?”

“Volkova…made a very compelling argument.”

You roll your eyes. When had Chuck ever listened to other people? “Now you’re just talking nonsense.”

“She was right, though.” he says, somehow being rather careful about saying his next words. “Birthdays are important.”

“…says the guy who threw a hissy fit when I got him something for _his_ birthday…”

“Mako, I was half-asleep, okay, and I’m using the damned present, aren’t I?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Still not answering my question.”

“As time passes I understand how obviously you are Stacker Pentecost’s daughter. Even your interrogation methods are the same.”

“So are yours – you’re stalling. _Again_.”

“Maybe I just wanted to thank you.”

That confuses you even more. “Why?”

He looks at you, and it sounds cliché but right now his eyes tell you more than he ever could say.

_Thank you for the reviewers. Thank you for the reminders. Thank you for fussing over me. Thank you for taking listening to me. Thank you for introducing me to all your silly friends. Thank you for taking care of Max and buying me aprons and –_

_Thank you for being my friend._

“Next time, I’ll get you something that isn’t cupcakes.” Chuck says, rolling up the sleeves of his T-shirt. He’s going to transfer the tray to the living room, where everyone else is – even Yancy, who Raleigh had literally hauled out of bed to visit. Before Chuck can protest, you take the other end of the tray, and concentrate on balancing it.

“So…maybe a whole cake, this time?” you say, jokingly.

Chuck seems to actually be thinking about it. “Well, I guess that technically _isn’t_ a cupcake…”

“I’d like that, though.” you tell him, truly, honestly, and he smiles. “You’re the best baker I know.”

“I’ll pencil you in, then.” Chuck murmurs, as the you make your way to the living room.

“Huh?”

“It's not my usual cupcake, but I guess I’ll just have to make an exception for you.” Chuck says. “As usual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...actually really where the story ends, as of now, but I'm not closing the door on it just yet. If you would like to peruse the text-heavy Author's Notes for this one, I strongly suggest you move on to the next chapter.


	6. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I get really wordy with my author's notes, so I put this in a separate chapter. It's an incurable habit, I know.

**_ Chapter 1: _ ** **_Ab initio_ **

…of course I titled the first chapter “from the start”. It’s a pun. Of sorts.

All the chapters are entitled vaguely-related Latin phrases I’ve nicked off of my own Partnership/Corporation Law notes, because a.) I am a sucker for mildly pretentious names, and b.) Partnership/Corporation Law is the only subject our hero and heroine do not share.

This one was mentioned in my book in relation to the Philippine Civil Code Article 1770: " _A partnership must have a lawful object or purpose, and must be established for the common benefit or interest of the partners_." If the partnership is created for an unlawful purpose, like, say, drugs or slave labour, the contract is considered void _ab initio_ \- from the start - as if it never existed at all.

Sasha’s a MechEng major, Aleksis is in ComSci, Cheung is in Accountancy, Jin is in ElecEng. I have no clear picture as to what Hu is taking up, but all I know is that it definitely isn’t Education, where So-yi is in. Yuna’s also an accountant. Tendo’s the dormitory landlord.

Also, yes, Sasha does watch GoT. I’m not in the fandom, myself, but my dad is, and so is a friend of mine, who both positively _adore_  Dany.

* * *

 

 **_ Chapter 2: _ ** **_Prima facie_ **

On the other hand, Mako watches Sherlock. Her favourite Sherlock adaptation’s got to be Elementary, though, because I like the idea of sassy ladies drawing inspiration from other sassy ladies.

This phrase comes from Article 1769 - " _The receipt by a person of a share of the profits of a business is prima facie evidence that he is a partner in the business, but no such inference shall be drawn if such profits were received in payment_." _Prima facie_ \- at first sight, before a deeper investigation, the first impression, so to speak.

Chuck, seriously, how do I write you, I have no idea how to. I am painfully aware that I don’t write him rougher around the edges enough, but that is at least partly intentional. I deal with him the same way I do when I write Sherlock – in some parts more mature and pragmatic than anyone, in some parts still reverting to the mental maturity of a twelve-year-old, especially when it comes to the whole “emotions, people, and how to deal” bit.

In this AU, while he doesn’t actually seek out talking to people much, he actually does feel some kind of kindred spirit-type of connection with Mako (due to their similarities, like Mako thought earlier: parents/parental figures in the faculty, having deceased parents, practicing martial arts, both workaholics who practice martial arts and have the same major, for crying out loud), treats everyone else with gruffly polite indifference (save _Ray-leigh_ , of course, who he still does Not Get Along With in this AU for as of yet off-screen reasons), admires Prof. Pentecost’s success, and basically, pointedly, does Not Like his dad. (Also see under: _issues, daddy_ )

I want a KitchenAid stand mixer. Most preferably in candy apple red.

Of _course_ Mako still gets to ogle the musculature in this world. Raleigh had to be comforted by Yancy telling him “see, lil’bro, this is why we keep our doors _closed_ when we change”.

Maximillian means “ _great_ ”, “ _the greatest_ ”. We all know how much Chuck wants to be the best, so it’d be rational for him to call both his business, as well as his beloved dog, by that name. But that’s not all there is to it…

There’s a little nugget of Japanese culture that I’ve kind of tried to shoehorn into my Pacific Rim fics from Mako’s POV, but I don’t think it’s kind of obvious? The Japanese have this whole system of honorifics – _san, chan, kun, sama, dono, sensei, kouhai, senpai_ , etcetera – and usually, when you’ve just gotten acquainted with someone, you don’t just call them by their given names.

Since Stacker’s been raising Mako since she was – nine, or maybe ten? – years old, and I’m having Mako’s parents raising Mako up in a more English-speaking-oriented town before that, I’m guessing that Mako, a bit more used to the Western system of nomenclature, would eschew using the honorifics (like she does, in the movie), and instead call people by their last names/Western titles instead.

And while I'm playing with the ages, the Hansen house fire happened when Chuck was...fourteen, fifteen? Having a mother's guidance for an extra few years would have made him a little more levelheaded, and thus his college plans would have been aborted due to both the emergence of his (daddy) issues, and the fact that said daddy is now the Engineering dean.

* * *

 

 **_ Chapter 3: _ ** **_Delectus personarum_ **

I read a fic where Sasha called Aleksis “ _Mishka_ ”, once, and it was beautiful. It's [The Bear and The Maiden Fair](../../884366) by Archadian_Skies on AO3, and I'm using that pet name and her maiden name being Volkova as part of this AU's headcanon, as well. Read that fic. I swear, you won't ever regret it.

 _Delectus personarum_ is one of the main reasons why, when establishing a partnership, consent of all other parties is crucial for admission/expulsion of a partner - because the partnership contract is a voluntary contract, and each partner should have the right to choose who they shall partner themselves with, because a partnership is a fiduciary relationship - based on trust and confidence.

As would be obvious from my usage of terminology, both legal and otherwise, as well as the descriptions I make of the ‘city’ they’re staying near in Chapter 4 (the streets are named after foreign cities, quite like Better Living in nearby Paranaque, which  names streets after countries), one could say that I am writing this in a Philippine setting. Which is all fine and dandy, since foreigners usually study here because it’s cheaper, but…why would said foreigner take up Accountancy here in the first place? Mako’s taking it up for Pre-Law, which is a good reason, but as for Chuck…well, if he’s aiming to practice being a CPA, he has to practice here, lest he not get his credentials.

Maybe I should stop overthinking the details. But I do so anyway. Drop me a line if you have anything to ask, okay? Okay. The important thing is, due to the probable Philippine setting, I can shoehorn a _lambanog_ reference! There are brands/types of _lambanog_ which have a higher alcohol content than Russian vodka, if I remember my Hetalia PH days correctly…

(Poor Aleksis. You’ll build up a resistance with proper practice, don’t worry…not that I know anything about the subject, seeing as my experience with alcoholic drinks is exactly zero.)

* * *

 

 **_ Chapter 4: _ ** **_Pro rata_ **

_Pro rata_ literally means "proportionally". It's meant to contrast with the next and final title, _pro tanto_. I am using the term in regards to a joint obligation and not to a partnership - because in the former, you really only are accountable for your proportionate share in the debt.

Chuck uses the Everyman sleep schedule. It's a 3.5 hour core sleep mixed with three 20-minute naps, and is the one of the possible ways I think he can juggle a full-fledged business of made-to-order cupcakes and the exact same major that keeps me awake at night. His schedule consists of a 9-12.30am core sleep, with naps from 4:10-4:30am, 8:10-8:30am, and 2:40-3:00pm (hence his annoyance at Mako's phone call...)

I personally don't use that schedule - I have three inconsistently-timed school days, and the most important thing about sticking to a polyphasic sleep schedule is consistency. For more info on the Everyman sleep schedule, take a gander at [this](http://www.polyphasicsociety.com/polyphasic-sleep/overviews/everyman/) site.

Mako and Stacker leave their shoes in the foyer and change into house slippers, which is also another thing I learned from sixth-grade me’s dabbles into Japanese culture.

Stacker serving tagliatelle is a nod to my on-hiatus [Parallelism Project](http://parallelismproject.tumblr.com/) series, a Tiger&Bunny/Hetalia crossover where there are a lot of emotions felt and South Italy makes scrumptious pasta.

As well as Herc’s favourite cake flavour being red velvet – it’s a nod to one of [ironheartedprincess](http://ironheartedprincess.tumblr.com/)’ fics, which collectively made me want to write about Chuck and Mako. As is the idea of freshman Mako having the silliest of infatuations for Engineer Hansen…which is definitely inevitable, I mean, the man ages like fine wine.

IFRS = _International Financial Reporting Standards_. The Philippines uses PFRS, Philippines Financial Reporting Standards, which are basically the IFRS with the serial numbers filed off, because of some internal accounting drama that occurred some ten years ago. (’02 was eleven years ago, now… _whoa_.)

The idea of cold anger winning cases comes from…common sense, but it also comes from the Homestuck fic [Scarlet and Bible Black](../../288446), which is the first fic I’ve ever seen on AO3. (How times have changed...)

* * *

 

 **_ Chapter 5: _ ** **_Pro tanto_ **

_Pro tanto_ is probably not the term one should use for referring to a generic Universal Partnership, even in the case that it refers to one involving all present property (as opposed to all profits, because even then the debts/losses/profits/gains are shared proportionally, barring that, equally. But general partners like Chuck and Mako are proportionally liable for any of the partnership debts, and shall pay for them in amounts up to and including their own personal property. Which makes such debts _pro tanto_ , albeit proportionally...do I make any sense? Urgh.

I was honestly going more for the metaphorical rather than the legal side for this. But then again, hasn't that been what I have been doing from the start??

All right, so this is where things get messy. Cheung is Mako’s CO – commanding officer – from her one year of officers’ training in high school, which is obviously patterned after the Philippine style of schooling. I am referring to the Philippine style of schooling _before_ the government put the K-12 system into action – that is, 6 years grade school + 4 years high school + 4/5/6/idk years of college. On the fourth and final year of high school, there is a period entitled either CAT or ROTC, where you either do military-style drills and/or clean the school and its surrounding areas + do feeding programs + take written exams + other stuff.

For one to be an officer to one’s classmates/upperclassmen in the CAT program, one has to take a year of officers’ training when they are either 2nd or 3rd year HS students. In my personal experience, I have had officers who were my age, as well as officers who were in their 3rd year when I was under their tutelage.

As I clearly have no idea how such a requirement shall be dealt with in a different country, I used what I know from the Philippine setting – and come to think of it, maybe it would make sense that this university be in a Philippine location, seeing as we’re smack dab in the middle of everything.

So yeah, feel free to either consider this a Generic University AU if you don’t know what I mean about the Filipino-inspired touches anyway, but I guess I shall now intentionally write this as a Philippine university that happens to have a whole lot of (attractive) foreign students.

I dunno where I first read of it, but apparently in Russian/Ukrainian birthdays, you’re not allowed to give gifts with sharp edges, which are apparently bad omens. If one _has_ to give such a gift (like, say, a Swiss knife, a chef’s knives set, a tiny Jaeger with buzzsaw hands), the gifter has to ask for the giftee to give them something small, like a coin, so it won’t be a gift anymore, it’d be a transaction.

 

…I told you guys I had a lot of notes. Urgh. OTL

By the way: if you also got the ever-so-subtle nods towards  _Watashi wa motete dousunda_  and  _Free!_ , then c'mere, I wanna be friends.

 

The biggest note is actually that this mainly started as a self-indulgent fic. It’s kind of obvious, really – happy Accounting students, cupcakes, and male-female platonic friendships? That’s basically heaven for me. Throw in a bit of angst in the mix, and it becomes like every other fic I’ve written recently. (looks at the on-hiatus _To A Stranger_ and _the deceit of my lips,_ the majorly depressing _Standard Formula of Longing…_ )

There are parts of the main characters, Chuck and Mako, that I wanted so much to emphasize, and I hope I was able to do so.

Mako is a young woman who presents herself as quiet, but her mind provides scathing, witty commentary about her actions and reactions, whether she actually acts on them or not, and she has a small, closely-knit circle of friends.

On the other hand, Chuck is a young man who has a boisterous, gruff exterior, who ticks off everyone he meets when they get too close, and obviously he doesn’t have any friends (save for Max, who is adorable and should be written about more, why didn’t I write about him more?) yet he takes to the idea of befriending Mako rather rapidly.

On the surface, that last bit may seem a whole lot out-of-character. But while I can’t say that I understand exactly what Chuck is feeling – to contrast, I’m someone who presents herself as quiet, has scathing mental commentaries for everything, and has friends who are rarely in her immediate physical vicinity – I can say that when one is used to spending their time all alone, and meets people who seem like a good egg, a person who’d make a good friend, they won’t let a chance to befriend said people go by without them at least _trying_.

Granted, it may not always result in success (Raleigh and Chuck’s momentary friendship developed into a love-hate relationship of sorts), but at least the lonely person tried, and therefore…well, at least they tried. Fortunately for our hero, his friendship with Miss Mori seems to be bound for greater things…

 

Another thing, though: the acronym for the title of this fic,  _By Any Other Name_ , reads BAON, which is coincidentally a word in Tagalog. It refers to the food that one brings along with them to eat during lunch/snack breaks at work/school, or, alternately, to the monetary allowance one sets aside to buy their lunches or snacks. So, say, a packed lunch, similar to the ones the Japanese call  _bento_ , can be referred to as  _baon_ , as well as the biscuits/cookies/fruits one packs for snack breaks, as well as a schoolchild's food allowance. This kind of baon is pronounced  _ba_ on, with the emphasis on the first syllable.

If you pronounce it ba _on_ , however (emphasis on second syllable) it also alternately refers to a totally different word, which means 'bury'. As in, 'bury the hatchet'.

All things said, though, I really did have a lot of fun writing this fic, and despite my dodgy sentence construction, lofty words, and overall silliness… I do hope that somehow, you, the reader, were able to have fun reading it as well!


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